


make it so divine

by ohtempora



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 09:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: She doesn't have a name for what pulls them together. Family, but only just. A battle, but not entirely. It is dark, how she thinks of him, flush with desire, a need for her kin. Jon’s not a brother anymore, but he isn’t quite her cousin. Sansa can’t let herself label it.“I missed you,” she says.





	make it so divine

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, i don't know either, i wrote this in like a day. trying some stuff out in preparation for writing longer fic, hopefully, trying to get a feel for character voices. set nebulously post-canon. the game of thrones equivalent of the 'u up' text, i guess. 
> 
> general warning for references to canonical trauma.

"We shouldn't," Jon says. 

He cuts a lovely figure, framed in firelight standing next to the hearth. Castle Black remains cold and grey, and Jon blends into it with his dark hair and dark cloak, his pink mouth and dark beard. 

They haven't seen each other in over a year. Jon sends letters to the Queen in the North, as befits their respective statuses. Sansa reads them all and responds herself, even when it's something simple — an update on the bandits plaguing the lands up near Deepwood Motte, or a request for certain provisions when they run low.

She missed him. Arya is gone to the sea and Bran is gone to the south; truly, Bran is gone further into the expanse of his own mind. Even rebuilt, Winterfell is lonely. Sansa walks down stairs that echo, turns a corner and expects to see the ghosts of her family running through the halls. 

If they're there, she can't see them. But Jon is here, and real. 

She says, "I know." 

Jon reaches out, an aborted gesture, his fingertips brushing the bone of her wrist. "I miss them too," he says. "That's not — enough. To—"

"I know," Sansa says again. She presses her lips together and looks at him again. She and Jon are of a height, have been for years. When they were first reunited at Castle Black it had been such a surprise. It hurts to see his grey eyes staring back at her, Stark eyes in a Stark face. Her cousin, the only other one left. She breathes in. "I know, I do, I just—"

It is so lonely, Sansa doesn't say. She is Queen and her enemies are dead and the harshest battle is over. Her realm is healing, new growth over deep scars. It is not yet done but it is  _ happening _ , slow and constant every day. She has scrubbed the Boltons from her castle, purged the traitors from her land, and the smallfolk do not gaze at her with terror when she passes by. The winter may be cold, but winter is in her bones. There is more in the world than there used to be, and still it is not enough.

Jon is lonely too. She is sure of it. Like her responses, some of the letters he sends are not strictly necessary. And yet he will not accept any invitation to come to Winterfell, even as representative of the Watch. Eventually Sansa stopped asking. Packed her bags and came to Castle Black instead. 

She doesn't have a name for what pulls them together. Family, but only just. A battle, but not entirely. It is dark, how she thinks of him, flush with desire, a need for her kin. Jon’s not a brother anymore, but he isn’t quite her cousin. Sansa can’t let herself label it.

“I missed you,” she says finally. It is the truth, and Jon will know it. Deserves to hear it, the words from her lips, not veiled between handwritten lines when she is answering his request for grain.

“Sansa,” Jon says, and she steps closer. 

Stupid, isn’t it. Wanting someone like this. Wanting Jon like this. It would be easier if she didn’t. One less ache beneath her breast. 

She kisses him instead of moving away. Discards propriety. Jon stiffens — surprise, maybe. Shock. His hesitation lasts for a mere second, and then he kisses her back.

"Jon," she says, his name a benediction, her lips against his. They're as soft as they look. His beard scratches lightly against her chin, and Sansa closes her eyes and kisses him again. 

His arms come up around her, big hands pressing against the wool covering her back. The fire in this room is stoked high, Sansa realizes. She is sweating. 

She's allowed to want things. She knows this. There were times when she thought she wasn't, and times when all she had was wanting, and now she is here and alive and has Jon in her arms. 

It takes a moment before she realizes Jon is saying something, lips moving underneath hers. It is a longer moment before she realizes he is saying "Please," voice low and rough, covering her mouth in the words. "Please, please, Sansa, please."

He's so warm.

She tugs at the fastenings to his cloak, watches as it falls to the floor. He fumbles at her lacings, trying to loosen everything enough so he can pull her dress down off her shoulders. When he succeeds she gasps at the heat of his hand against her bare skin. One point of contact, her collarbone, his fingertips, and already she is aflame. 

“Did you come here for this?” he asks. He cups her breast with one rough hand. Her dress and shift are down around her waist, like she is a maid consorting with some lesser lordling in a dim back hall. She wonders if he will get her clothes fully off or if he will push up her skirts, push aside her smallclothes, put his cock in her. She doesn’t know which one she wants more. 

“I came here for you,” she says. “I would go to you. I missed you.” 

Jon thumbs her nipple, moves his thumb over the outside of her breast. 

“It wasn’t only this,” Sansa adds, and Jon moves his hand lower. He ghosts over the curve of her hip, fingers so light and careful, before he steps back and pulls off his shirt. 

The markings on his chest, the spot where he was killed. Where his men drove a knife in his chest. After all these months they are still red, visible through the curls of hair on his chest. She doesn’t know if she should touch him there 

His gaze stutters across her skin, and she knows he is looking at her scars too. Even in soft firelight they are a vicious reminder, exactly as Ramsay intended them to be. She knows the lines they carve over her as well as she knows the weight of her own hair in her hands. 

"It's alright," Sansa murmurs, and in response Jon leans down and brushes his lips across her throat. There is a clench between her legs, where she is already throbbing and hot, and she presses herself to him so she doesn't have to watch him look at her anymore, so she can feel him instead, hard with his desire for her. She slips her hand into his breeches. The head of his cock is damp, and he hisses when she touches him. Gods, but she aches for him, wants the weight of him inside her.

Sansa pushes the remainder of her skirts down until they puddle on the floor, and steps as deliberately as she knows how towards the bed. As Jon follows, she hears another soft intake of breath, feels his eyes on the curve of her back. She pulls him to her and falls backwards in the furs. 

Grasping himself in hand, Jon sinks into her, so slowly it makes her chest ache. Sansa wraps her legs around him, opening herself up, tilts her head so she can kiss him as he starts to move. She’s so wet that it’s easy for him to fuck her, the sounds of it loud in the silent room.

The drag of his cock inside her is wildly good. He’s snaked a hand in between their bodies, fingers slick against her, and Sansa presses up against him, moves with him. Jon has his face buried in her hair and he’s murmuring words she doesn’t dare hear.

She knew, she supposes, what coupling with a man was supposed to feel like. Anecdotally. Heard it in whispers, back when that sort of gossip about wedding nights and beddings mattered. Of course it is Jon who makes her feel good, like she’ll shake apart. How wrong it is that it’s him, and how right. She peaks under his hand, squeezing down on his cock without meaning to. He wrings out a muttered curse from low in his throat and pushes into her hard. 

“I want you to,” Sansa says, sharper than she means. “Please, I want you to, Jon, please.” She rolls her hips, shaking with the aftershocks, almost too sensitive, until Jon whines and moans and spills inside her. He seals his mouth to hers and she is grateful for it, so she doesn’t accidentally say anything Jon isn’t meant to hear, anything that might mean too much.

They curl together underneath the furs, sweat cooling, breath slowing. Jon places his arm over her stomach hesitantly, like he doesn't know if he should. Absently — she appreciates that, she realizes. How he's asking. 

"We shouldn't have," he says, and Sansa shakes her head, says, "Shhh."

She knows. Leaving in three days will be harder now. Everything between them will be more raw, the next time he writes asking for grain. It doesn’t matter. Jon's so warm. It makes her think for half a second of dragons, before she closes her eyes. His breath tickles the back of her neck. 

"I know what you think you have to do," she says. "But you will always have a home with me. With — as long as there's a Stark in Winterfell, you will have a place to go." 

He won't come south to her for some time, she's sure of it. Jon carries his penance around with him. All Sansa can do is give him a way to forget, a place to one day go. 

"When you're ready," she amends. When he’s ready, she will be there at the gates. "Until then— "

"The Queen in the North is always welcome at Castle Black." Jon is tracing circles low on her belly, and Sansa presses her legs together at the shiver that goes through her. He doesn't speak any more of her implication of Daenerys, of an end to to his exile. He kisses the nape of her neck, his hand slipping lower between her legs. 

Sansa arches back into him, and exhales. 


End file.
